


Between lives

by KelticBanshee



Series: Seduction Moves 'verse [1]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Gen, Hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:11:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelticBanshee/pseuds/KelticBanshee





	Between lives

It's raining. It's always raining. Jack turns the collar of his coat against the wind and the droplets and hurries along the street, thankful for the almost full moon illuminating the night. It might give German bombers a better chance of finding London in the dead of the night, but it makes moving around in the dark easier. Backstreets are treacherous enough as they are. Despite six decades — has it really been that long? — on this godforsaken planet, rain must be one thing he still hasn't gotten used to. Social conventions and provincial attitudes to everything that makes life worth living, he can deal with. Weapons that still are aeons away from being considered reliable, he can handle. Alien blowfish dressed in period clothes, he can get used to.

Sempiternal rain, not so much.

At least it's not snowing.

Yet. Winter is still to make its appearance — it's still a few weeks to Christmas.

A siren pierces the silence, and around him London springs to life. The rustle of people stumbling in the night, away from their home into the relative safety of the shelters fills the air. Doors open and close, children — numbers dwindling by the day — are shushed to silence. There are a few disgruntled calls and swearwords directed at the night air, and then, slowly, stillness returns. London disappears under a blanket of darkness, as if wanting to hide on the skin of the planet.

He plants his feet and stands in the middle of the street, eyes darting around the night sky, trying to make out the shadows that may or may not be planes. Daring them to do their worst. Challenging them to end his life once again. He snorts, a bitter laugh pushing to come out. As if it would make a difference. As if it _mattered_. If a bomb dropped on him right now, nothing would change. He would come back, a bit more broken, a bit more tired of the unending cycle of life and death and rebirth and betrayal.

But nothing would change.

Well. That's not entirely true. The street would be destroyed. People would lose their homes, their mementos, everything that remained of their everyday life in the chaos of war. That should matter to him, but, somehow, he finds himself looking at the possibility with the detachment of a scientist conducting an experiment. Death is part of life, and doesn't he know it. It has been part of his for way longer than he cares to remember.

With a sigh, he starts moving again, flipping open his Vortex Manipulator to check on the signal he's been tracking. The alien wave is the only reason he is in London at a time he has already visited. It wouldn't be so bad if he could remember exactly where his past self is right now, but it's not as he ever intended to be here — now — again, so he wasn't exactly paying attention the first time around. It wouldn't be so bad if he didn't have the feeling his past self is not the only one he should be worrying about. The last thing he'd need right now is to run into himself.

But that is one piece of information he couldn't exactly put on the table when he tried to wriggle out of this mission. Torchwood already knows way too much about him and he's not about to volunteer any more interesting tidbits. So when an unknown alien signal appeared over the city and Torchwood One requested him and ignored his protest that there were plenty of people in London more than qualified to deal with situation, ha had no choice but to come here. He shakes his head, and cold droplets slide over his neck and under his shirt collar, making him shiver. He lets out a sigh, too tired of being cold and wet to actually care anymore.

The signal has changed directions once again. He finds himself struggling to remember road layouts and intersections of a city he used to know like the back of his hand. But it's been a while since he last was here. Well. In terms of linear time, he is here _now_. Dancing the endless dance of sweet cons and sweeter conquests. About to meet the Doctor and Rose and have his life turned upside down and changed forever. In his personal timeline, it's been over half a century since that happened.

Half a century. A whole life. A couple of them, actually, by Torchwood standards. Enough time to settle into his golden cage at Torchwood Cardiff. Enough time to settle down, meet a woman out of her time, with a sharp mind and a wicked sense of humour that made him fall head over heels and ignore the consequences, ignore the heartache that he should have seen coming. Enough time to make his vows to her, not because that was what she expected, but because that was what he wanted to share with her.

Enough time to lose her, to watch her fade away and leave him behind. Enough time to learn to hate the memories, the trace of her laughter in his mind, the words etched all over his soul. Enough time to almost learn to hate her for the pain.

Enough time for him to hide in Torchwood, to worry about nothing but missions, aliens and technology that needed to be captured and safely stored. Enough time to forget there is a world outside Torchwood. Enough time for the world outside Torchwood to forget about him, for all friends and acquaintances to die, for Torchwood to go through a change of guard of its own. For him to lose old friends, meet new colleagues, and find a new bed to share.

Enough time for life to become a string of days when nothing mattered but getting the job done, when he wouldn't even allow himself the company of other lost souls like him.

Enough time for the pain to fade into a dull ache. Enough time for him to promise himself not to get close to anyone ever again. Enough time to vow to save himself the pain and the heartache and the endless need to stop it all. To stop having to carry on, to stop the endless yearning for the moment of relief that comes with the darkness after death.

Enough time to make him regret all the times he never told her how good she looked, how special she was, how she brightened the room with her mere presence. Because he always thought there would be a better, more appropriate moment. Because of the many excuses he never got tired of making.

He only realises he's punched a wall when the jolt of pain explodes. He takes a step away from the wall, shaking his hand, tentatively moving fingers, checking for broken bones. That would be the last thing he needed. Luckily, all seems to be in one piece. Or rather, in however many pieces a human hand has in its natural, working state. The rain, nonetheless, keeps falling. Does it ever stop raining?

He tries to push the memories away, but they only come back stronger. The first tentative encounters, new acquaintances turning into friends turning into lovers turning into dust. Every time he promises he will do things differently. Every time he promises he won't wait to say the things his lovers want to hear, to hold their hands and look them in the eye and make the promises he wants to make.

And every time something holds him back, something stops him. Something dark and cold and biting into his soul, reminding him of the pain that comes with attachment. Bringing back memories and bitterness and leftover grief he thought he'd left behind. And so the look in his lovers' eyes turns into his personal prison, into a constant reminder of everything he isn't, everything he _cannot_ give them because he, of all people, is afraid. He doesn't deserve them. He never deserves them, the affection, the respect, the smiles, the abandonment and trust.

Because he cannot be the person they want. The person they deserve. No matter how much he wants to.

Because he'll run away the moment the Doctor comes back and says one word, because that's what he's doing here. Waiting a very long wait of his own.

Or that's what he keeps telling himself.

So every time he waits, and bites his tongue. He keeps his distance even in moments when no distance can be kept, when hiding pretensions should be impossible but still he manages.

So every time he walks away before they wither and die, or so he tells himself. He leaves before they have a chance to find out just how much of a coward he can be at times, and how he hates himself for it. Before the day they look him in the eye and realise he hasn't aged, and start asking questions, and demanding answers, and wondering how long and why didn't he tell them and how could he hide something like this.

Never mind that nobody reacts well to finding out he can't die. Or rather, he can't stay dead.

Every time he promises himself never again. Never again will he drop his guard, never again be fooled by a smile, a pair of pretty eyes, a sway of hips or a witty remark. Every time he promises himself to stick to what he does best, to being Torchwood's hunting hound, the man that Torchwood reaches for when dirty work needs to be carried out. To caring about nothing and nobody but himself. Because any other way would only lead to madness.

This time, maybe this time, he'll manage to stick to vain promises. Judging by his track record, it may take a few more centuries for the lesson to sink in.

He lets out a sigh again as he follows the alien signal into a building. The Astoria. As he walks through the front doors, the sound of music drifts towards him. Great. At some point the all clear must have rung through the city while he was too lost in his thoughts to notice. And it must be ball night. Just what he needs, an alien in a crowded place in the middle of London. You would think that in the middle of a war people would be too busy, or too scared, or too tired, to hold balls and parties and carry on living as if nothing were going on. But not here, not now. Teapots are still brewed, dresses are still embellished for parties, ballrooms still fill, neighbours still pop over to help.

Gotta admire the human race and their resilience to despair, the way they cling on to hope.

Something — or rather someone — slams into him as he turns towards the area of the building where the alien seems to have — finally — stopped. He almost loses his footing, his arms closing around a slender, almost delicate figure. It takes a couple of clumsy steps, a muttered exclamation or three coupled with an almost — but not quite — curse word that makes him smile before the two of them regain their balance.

"I'm sorry." The words leave his lips before his brain notices. He flashes a smile, lets go of the young woman in his arms and takes a step back. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear almost shyly before staring up at him and smiling back, left hand firmly on her hips. "Not sure how I managed to miss such a beauty coming towards me." She raises an eyebrow, as if calculating how many people he's spun that line to in the past six months. He finds himself straightening his back, tension ebbing away from his body in a way that only makes him more aware of it.

"Estelle!" She turns her head towards the voice and makes a clear gesture to be left alone. There is a silent conversation between her and the two women beckoning her to rejoin them in the other room. Eventually, with a sigh, she nods, a mix of disappointment and resignation on her face.

"I'm sorry, my friends are waiting…" He nods and catches her eyes for a moment before looking away, reminding himself once again of Torchwood and duty and possible aliens in the middle of London and the wisdom of staying away from lovely young women who look like they would never take no for an answer. "Hope you find who you are looking for!"

He blinks a couple of times, taking a deep breath and watching the young woman — Estelle — as she rejoins her friends. The three of them start gigging like the school girls they'd quite likely still be if it wasn't for this war before disappearing back into the ballroom. He's left wondering how Estelle knows he's looking for someone — even if that someone is an alien that could blow half the city to smithereens with one sneeze — when he hasn't said a word about it.

As he walks towards the depths of the building, the service corridors in the basement and all those dark and dingy places aliens just seem to love hiding in, he can't help but feel like all his good intentions just jumped out the window. Taking his common sense with them, most likely.

He'll have to check up on Estelle on the way out.


End file.
